


Skeleton Flower

by seiyuna



Series: There will be other lives [1]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Canon Divergence, Fix-It, M/M, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-02 22:30:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14554914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seiyuna/pseuds/seiyuna
Summary: Kurapika dies.He gets one more chance to make things right.But this means preventing a massacre from ever happening, finding companions he has yet to meet, and fraternizing with an enemy—who isn’t truly his enemy anymore.





	1. Chapter 1

 

The Black Whale is sinking.

Amidst the screaming and crying and chaos accompanying one of the greatest passenger ships in the world descending into the ocean, Kurapika stands against the railing of the uppermost deck. Ahead of him, the sun dips below the horizon, casting a golden glow along the surface of the water. It would be an admirable sight, if not for the fact that it would be the last for many of them.

The Kakin royalty are being ushered into the lifeboats, followed by those of the fairer society. The deck is crowded with passengers making their escape, but even the Zodiacs coupled with the Kakin soldiers aren’t enough to handle the situation. Progress is inevitably slow.

A woman attempts to board Prince Woble’s lifeboat, and Kurapika holds up a hand. “Leave all possessions behind.”

Her eyes are hesitant, almost wary. Her intricate gown and jewelry speak of how she had no time to change from the banquet, but there’s two large bags in her hands, their contents threatening to spill over. “I hold my family’s inheritance in my hands. I can’t possibly abandon them in the water!”

“Then feel free to join them in the ocean,” Kurapika answers relentlessly. “There isn’t enough room for everyone, let alone worldly possessions. Leave them behind, or you’ll be the one remaining behind.”

She chokes on a disbelieving laugh, or perhaps it’s a sob. Her deliberation doesn’t last very long, because there are passengers growing impatient behind her, more than willing to take her seat. Thrusting the bags towards a Kakin soldier, she ultimately relinquishes her belongings. The two bags are dropped into the water along with everything else. A woman’s sun hat floating on the surface of the water. A lone briefcase packed with family heirlooms. Sheets of papers scattered by the wind.

The woman lifts her skirt to climb over the lifeboat. It leaves a bitter taste in Kurapika’s mouth that they need to defer to people like her. People who don’t understand the gravity of the situation—bemoaning the discomfort of congested lifeboats, catching colds, abandoning their belongings—rather than the hundreds of thousands of lives below them. Those who have nothing to lose but their lives.

There’s not that much time left. A few more individuals board that very lifeboat, until the expected capacity has been met. An uneasy tension settles in the air, driven by a couple grasping onto each other tightly, so young and inseparable. The realization that Kurapika has not joined them makes Queen Oito rise from her seat, though Bill presses his hands against her shoulders, encouraging her to sit down.

“What is going on?” Queen Oito’s hands fist into her skirt, her knuckles going white.

The hands on her shoulders tighten ever so slightly. It takes tremendous effort, but Bill manages to answer, “Kurapika is staying behind.”

His words are a death toll, striking fear into Queen Oito’s heart. “What do you _mean_?” Her hands are trembling now, a habit that has never left her. “I swear upon everything I hold dear, if Kurapika doesn’t come with us, I will throw myself into the ocean—”

“Your Highness, please calm yourself.” Only the railing separates them now. Kurapika looks at her as softly as he is able to, as if he hasn’t resigned himself to his demise. The ache in his chest eases with the knowledge that Bill will remain by her side. “You have to understand that I don’t have much time left. I have nothing else to offer you.”

“ _No!_ How could you say that—” Her voice is laced with more desperation than Kurapika ever heard of before. She reaches out to Kurapika fiercely, struggles to wrench herself from Bill’s hold, but her efforts are futile. A sob breaks apart in her throat, a sound that tears from inside her, and she’s shaking with the force of it. “I _refuse_ to lose anyone else. Don’t you dare do this to me—”

“I’m sorry.” Bill tries not to let his voice falter, because there’s a deep-rooted ache that mirrors her own. He refuses to let her go, smothering her attempts to drive her elbows into his ribs and twist away from his grasp. “I promise,” he says to Kurapika, with the same endless, impossible faith that once drew Kurapika away from his seething hatred, that reminded him of what was most important, “that I’ll protect them.”

There are furious tears stinging at Queen Oito’s eyes, because this is the ultimate betrayal, but instead of being concerned for her mother, Prince Woble looks at him with that same curiosity as when they first met. The golden sun feathers her hair with light, lends a softness to the swell of her cheeks, making him consider how much she’s grown throughout this journey. She will be just fine when she has her mother, Bill, Shimano at her side. She might not even remember him when she grows older.

“Thank you.” Kurapika allows himself to smile and it falters around the edges a little. He’s never said farewell before, not even to his clan, and wonders if this is how it should go. Should it feel like the gentle wind tousling his hair, the taste of sea salt on his tongue? He’s so apologetic yet heartened by the promise of a better future. “That’s all I could ever ask for.”

Grief bleeds into their gazes, like their hearts are breaking, and then—

The lifeboat drops.

Kurapika turns away and pretends that he doesn’t hear his name.

His task here is over. From the corner of his eye, he recognizes a pair of familiar white scrubs, sees Leorio assisting a heavily pregnant woman and her husband onto a quickly filling lifeboat. His limbs feel heavy when he walks past them, but his heart feels lighter than it’s ever been.

It’s as difficult to push past the crowd of people as it is to wade through sea water. He wonders if any of the lower passengers have been informed. The impending aftermath chills him—the endless ocean robbing air from thousands of people, filling their lungs with water, swallowing them down without anyone to come to their aid. It’s a terrible way to die.

Kurapika’s vision blurs with each step he takes, and it’s not because of tears. He hasn’t cried since his homeland fell, had forgotten how to cry, but perhaps it was indignance that burned all of his tears away.

Slipping past the Kakin soldiers, he slides open a door to return to the indoor cabins. The silence is so sudden and deafening that it makes his head spin—a contrast to the air outside, so tense with panic and desperation. No one is going to return here, and Kurapika isn’t going back outside.

Kurapika keeps a hand against the walls of the hallway to steady himself. Not because of the way the ship slowly lists, but because it is difficult to stand upright after exhausting himself for most of the day. The fatigue in his bones has dulled to a low throb, but he forces himself to move onward.

The rooms he passes are dark and still, devoid of any presence. Eventually, he finds himself in front of a door at the end of hallway, a stream of weak light coming from the gap. The remnants of fresh blood are stark against the white floor. A long breath escapes him before he pushes the door open, letting it fall soundlessly behind him. The metallic scent of blood saturates the air.

“How kind of you to join me.”

Kurapika levels an even gaze at where Kuroro is leaning against the wall, clothes torn and stained from a extensive, gruesome laceration running from his collarbone to his ribs. He never thought it possible for Kuroro to grow paler, but he seems to have done so. His eyes are dark beneath a fringe of even darker lashes, though there’s a weariness that wasn’t there before. It had taken only one day for Kuroro to go from one of the most powerful individuals in the world to a dying man.

“I’m not here for you,” Kurapika answers, when there are ten canisters at his side, each with a vibrant eyeball suspended in formaldehyde. “I’m surprised that you haven’t left this world yet.”

Kuroro laughs, but it isn’t cruel. It’s soft, desiccated. “I couldn’t possibly die before seeing you again.”

The slope of the ship is more noticeable now, and Kurapika watches with an abstract horror as the canisters begin sliding on the floor. Without a second thought, he throws himself forward to gather them all, preventing the shattering of glass with his own body. He kneels by Kuroro’s side, carefully lining them against the wall.

“You are a fool,” Kuroro says through shallow breaths, “for watching your friends leave and staying behind.”

Kurapika leans back against the wall, right beside him. “If I leave, I would only end up as a dead body. An unnecessary weight.” He doesn’t look at Kuroro, only glances at the clock adjacent to them, watching the minute hand increment. If he’s calculated the time he has left accurately, then he should only have an hour. It would be better to succumb to the restrictions of his abilities than let the ocean swallow him first. “This is the price that these Eyes have demanded I pay.”

Kuroro tips his head back and closes his eyes in thought. “My companions are dead. You can still give closure to yours.”

Kurapika thinks that he hears something akin to _respect_ in his words. The animosity between them has been long suppressed, but that doesn’t mean he could ever respect Kuroro in turn. If things were the same as two years ago, then he would be dying at Kurapika’s hands. But he isn’t.

“If my clan couldn’t afford a proper burial,” Kurapika says, staring at the Scarlet Eyes looking past him, “then why should I have the privilege?”

He can only imagine the burden that would come with carrying his body ashore with them, having to bury him despite being their youngest, and the memory haunting Queen Oito for many years to come. It’s better this way. With no grave to visit, perhaps moving on will be a little easier.

A shift, and then there's a gentle pressure on his shoulder. Kuroro presses his face against his shoulder, and while being touched by Kuroro should leave him feeling filthy, he lets him stay there. Sweat pools at Kuroro’s collarbone, blending with the blood that seeps from his wounds. There’s no catharsis in seeing him like this, and it’s a wonder how he’s somewhere between alive and dead.

“You are too young,” Kuroro murmurs, breath against Kurapika’s skin. “Too kind.” A pause. “If things were different—perhaps we could have been companions.”

It’s not an apology, and it draws a pained laugh from Kurapika. “You’ve lost so much blood that you’re speaking nonsense now.”

If things were different, perhaps Kurapika would not be dying because of his bloodline.

He would return ashore with the rest of them, see Queen Oito and Prince Woble off to safety, free from the circumstances of the succession war.

He would visit Killua and Gon one more time— _Gon_ , especially, because he never did visit him at the hospital, never met his beloved Aunt Mito in the backwaters of Whale Island.

He would watch Leorio at his graduation ceremony, donning his black cap and gown and accolades, hearing his name being read aloud in the auditorium— _Dr. Paladiknight_ , that's who he will be, because he's going to fulfill his dreams of saving people’s lives.

He would fall in love with someone, someone that loves him more than he does himself, and have a family of his own so that his bloodline would not die with him. 

In another life, a different life, perhaps certain things would have meant more to him. There are people who need things of material and sentimental value to ground them, need photos to remind themselves of their friends and family. But Kurapika’s family burned on a pyre and died for their eyes. He only has ghosts.

It’s enough, the way things turned out. He did not have to die a torturous death during an encounter with Kuroro, let alone Tserriednich. He did not have to take another life— _Kuroro’s_ life, because someone else wanted him dead just as much.

“Perhaps we could have been more.” Kuroro lets out a soft sigh. “This feels too much like a lovers’ suicide pact.”

Kurapika doesn’t have the capacity to be offended anymore. There’s a bone-deep weariness within him that even sleep could not appease. He's been tired for far too long.

“This isn’t the end,” Kurapika says, in finality. “We’ll see each other again in Hell.”

The end of Kurapika’s story will be found in the endless water; in the slow, steady beat of his heart; in worn, forgotten books. There was never any happiness for him, no hope for him, when he only burned himself out for retribution, willing to die for memories of his ghosts. The end will be found here, but perhaps, there will be another beginning.

As he hears a soft hum in agreement, Kurapika closes his eyes.

A gentle darkness is the last thing he knows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my obligatory time travel fic. Contrary to Kurapika's expectations, I did want to give him a calm ending. He deserves peace.
> 
> I would say, that in the end, Kuroro and Kurapika were able to work together somehow. Tserriednich is gone, and the Scarlet Eyes were able to be retrieved. The next chapter will be up very soon, hopefully within the next few days!
> 
> @ks_lobos2 did this lovely [piece of art](https://twitter.com/ks_lobos2/status/993226294924988416) inspired by this chapter. Please do check it out! <3
> 
> Please free to leave a comment—I would love to know what you think. You can also reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

 

There are no beginnings in the comfort of a seraphic forest; in the warmth of a summer with sunlight caressing his cheeks and grasses beneath his feet; in the scent of wind carrying morning dews; in grassland birds taking flight and finding freedom in a vast sky.

Kurapika’s eyes snap open. The sudden flood of awareness is just as overwhelming as the pain searing throughout his body. He’s sprawled over the arid ground, aching down to his bones, and he can’t distinguish where one pain starts and another ends. 

There’s no water in his lungs—everything is so _dry_ when he takes his first full breath—and his throat hurts as if he had swallowed a handful of thorns. The air speaks of drought, but life still persists around him. When he lets out a cough, the black birds pecking at his soles rustle their wings and retreat to the sky. It’s impossible to tell where he is from their cries and calls alone.

Another breath, and it’s easier now. Kurapika doesn’t know how long he’s been lying here, his back on dead leaves and jagged rocks, his face upturned to the darkening sky. Perhaps a moment, perhaps an eternity. Time has vanished from the forefront of his mind despite how much it meant to him, when he always measured the passage of it. 

The remnants of a dream follow him into wakefulness. There’s a litany of voices in his ears, people he can’t discern, fragmented images flowing through his mind. Kurapika slides a hand through his hair and—remembers a phantom warmth, a gentle kiss pressed to his forehead. Remembers looking into the eyes of a young woman, only a few years older than him, but when he measured time in years, she looked the same as when he last saw her.

The memory comes with a stark, aching clarity.

_It’s not your time yet._

_Breathe._

It hits him so hard that his heart stutters. His chest suddenly feels too tight.

He can’t possibly—

_Breathe._

Kurapika chokes on his next breath, a strangled gasp, and his hands fist into his hair. He wants to sob the way he hasn’t been able to in years, too caught up in the throes of grief and vengeance without release. He can’t cry, not now.

Catching his breath seems impossible, but he manages to take slow, deliberate breaths, until the panic begins to slide away.

_Stay safe. I’ll be waiting for you._

A shudder wracks through his body, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of relief or regret or something else altogether. He presses a hand against the ground, feeling the imprint, the depth, and forces himself upright. He can hear his joints crackling in protest. The weight of return settles on his mind, reminding him what exactly happened before he closed his eyes for what he assumed to be the last time.

Letting go of his life was much easier than expected, when the exhaustion of his abilities only left Kurapika connected to life by a thin thread, before it severed altogether. He simply didn’t expect to wake up in an unfamiliar place when he should be buried thousands of feet beneath the water.

When there’s no water to be found, Kurapika can’t be anywhere close to the Black Whale—not even a distant island. A breeze scatters dead leaves onto his lap and he picks one up between his fingers. It crumbles with the slightest pressure, leaving nothing in his hand but a stem and veins. Kurapika gazes towards the direction of the wind. Beyond the mounds of rubbish and filth, a city rises in the distance.

If this is supposed to be Hell, then he’s seen far worse than Hell. Slowly and carefully, he gets his feet under himself and rises, dusting the dirt from his clothes. A wetness seeps through his suit jacket and he gingerly presses his hand over it, expecting the worse.

Blood stains his hand.

Not _his_ blood, but Kuroro’s own.

It takes a moment for his thoughts to realign. When he closes his eyes, he sees a pale face marked by weariness, a body worn thin and deprived of blood, a phantom lingering on the fine line between life and death. When Kuroro lost his world, Kurapika’s could not be salvaged, and they accompanied each other until death.

But his heart beats on and on, and the steady rhythm sounds nothing like the heartbeat of someone who is dying—shouldn’t even belong to someone who is supposed to be _dead_. Breathing like this feels no less different than his life before. He doesn’t believe in second chances, but doesn’t know what else this could be.

Kurapika’s not willing to sit around doing nothing, so he keeps his eyes open. He needs answers and perhaps, he will find them in the city.

The city takes half an hour to reach by foot, and he steps past too many broken glass bottles, foil candy wrappers, and scraps of newspapers throttled by the wind. Sheets of newsprint get caught at his feet, and he reaches down to retrieve them. His eyes flick to the front of the page, the ink smudged from being thumbed through, and everything stills.    

> METEOR CITY MAN WRONGFULLY CONVICTED FOR MURDER EXONERATED AFTER THREE YEARS.
> 
> 62 KILLED IN MASS MURDER-SUICIDE.

An ill feeling rises high in Kurapika’s throat. The images blur before his eyes, the names of the deceased swim on the crinkled page, and he finds himself gripping the paper too tightly. He knows this incident well—the tramp incident from a decade ago, where the 31 individuals who condemned an innocent man were murdered by another 31 individuals from Meteor City in a fierce act of retribution. 

That’s exactly what makes Kurapika feel faint.

The date on the newsprint is indicative of _ten years ago._

Kurapika doesn’t know what to do with this information, because it becomes strikingly clear that he’s in Meteor City. A miasma staining the air announces his arrival, and he has to hold his breath to walk along the dusty streets. He folds the article and tucks it away in his suit pocket. When he passes by old apartment buildings and sleeping bodies in dark alleyways, his presence does not go unnoticed. The people lingering in the streets stop what they’re doing on sight, regard his dress intently, and turn to whisper too loudly to their companions. 

Kurapika’s black suit is a sharp contrast to the torn clothes hanging from their thin frames. As much as he tries to drag his feet forward, the sight of a particularly young child in the periphery of his vision grounds him. The boy curls in on himself, his arms to his chest, as a group of older children strike him with their feet and fists in effort to snatch the pouch clutched to his chest. 

The boy doesn’t make a sound throughout the beating, until one of the larger boys lands a kick on his stomach, forcing a sharp gasp from him. Kurapika frowns. In one swift motion, he seizes two of the boys by their collars and lifts them from the ground.

“What the—?”

“Let me go!”

Both of them flail in protest, and Kurapika releases them none too gently. Stepping over them, he demands, “Leave.”

They scurry back in a cluster, securing their escape through the alleyway, but one of them dares to look back at Kurapika. “Don’t tell us what to do, _outsider_.”

The boy isn’t necessarily wrong, but Kurapika shrugs his words off, turning his attention to the child at his feet instead. Behind a mess of silver hair, his owlish eyes are beseeching, and Kurapika can’t help but feel like he’s seen them before. He kneels down and offers an outstretched hand.

“Are you alright?” Kurapika asks softly, receiving a nod in response. He doesn’t take Kurapika’s hand, though. “Is that something important to you?”

The boy looks down at the pouch and shifts it in his hands. The gentle clinking of coins could be heard. “I’m starving.” In the shadows of the alleyway, faint scuffling noises come from small creatures searching for their meals. Teeth and nails scrape against metal, and then there's the sound of an empty can rolling across the ground. “Do you have—?”

Kurapika pats down his jacket and pants and remembers that his wallet is in his back pocket. He doesn’t know how he was able to keep this out of all things. He opens up his black wallet, and at the sight of paper notes, the boy comes closer. Too close, and then—

His wallet is no longer in his hands. It takes half a heartbeat before the boy takes off, and another before Kurapika follows, racing through the streets before he can get any farther. God, the first time in a while that he tries to be helpful to a stranger, he pays for it. Kurapika nearly loses the boy when he runs past a vegetable cart, and Kurapika almost slams into it, spilling old produce over the ground and rolling about on the streets.  

The merchants curse at him, but Kurapika pays them no mind as the boy turns into the bend of a street. It appears to be a dead end, which works well enough for him. Against the worn brick wall, there is not one boy, but someone else waiting for him as well.

The sight is an incongruity, because it’s like Kurapika is looking at a ghost. A pale face, dark eyes, and black hair parted evenly over a cross tattoo. His mind can’t catch up to what he sees, because all he can think is—Kuroro’s dead, Kuroro’s _alive_. But there’s no blood on him, no tears in his clothing, no wounds on his skin. This isn't the Kuroro he knows. He looks so much younger, so much cleaner, almost as if he could be the same age as Kurapika. 

The boy clings to Kuroro’s legs, shaking. Kuroro fondly pats him on the head and says, “You shouldn’t get caught if you steal, Kortopi. Especially if they’re as nice as this stranger here.”

 _Oh_ , Kurapika thinks, because this has to be some kind of construct of the past. Horror settles within him, something that feels like a heavy blow to his heart. It’s one thing to lend a hand to a child, but another thing entirely to a Spider. He tries to suppress the horrible feeling in his throat, because Kortopi’s a child too, but it doesn’t make much difference.

Kuroro takes the wallet from Kortopi and throws it in Kurapika’s direction. It falls into his hands with ease.

“This is no place for tourists,” Kuroro says, regarding him as if he’s some kind of wealthy businessman or missionary. “Go home.”

Kurapika feels too lightheaded. Kuroro brushes past him as he walks by, and he doesn’t know what he should do. Should he reach out to him, call out his name? Surely that would be a dangerous move, when Kuroro doesn’t seem to recognize him at all.

Kurapika swallows thickly, ignoring the inexplicable ache stinging at his chest. All he says is, “Thank you for returning this.”

A wave in acknowledgment, before Kuroro disappears with his young companion in the street. He feels as if he's making a grave mistake for letting Kuroro leave like this, but he quickly checks his wallet again. Tucked away in the pockets are bills left untouched, receipts from old purchases, and recent train tickets. All of them are dated from his time, but he doesn't know if he should ask someone for the date of today.

Everything in his wallet seems to be there, but his Hunter license—

It’s gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick chapter, so please bear with me. Poor Kurapika was robbed twice. 
> 
> I'm taking liberties with pre-canon aspects of this fic, so the Silva and Kuroro fight might be happening very soon..
> 
> Please leave a comment—I would love to know what you think. You can also reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

 

A flash of lightning, but no rain.

The sky grows dark and oppressive, encouraging civilians to close the doors and windows of their apartments without hesitation. Meteor City doesn’t seem like a place that would see much rainfall, or any at all. The sight of lightning is more like an omen than anything.

The sudden change in humidity makes Kurapika’s hair stick to his face. As if the heat could be more unbearable. The heaps of garbage rise several floors high next to the buildings, and the pungent scent seems to have magnified. No wind passes by as he moves through the vacant streets, keeping a measured distance behind Kuroro and Kortopi to remain undetected. It’s fortunate that he can still conceal himself using Zetsu.

As he leaves behind old apartments, more decrepit dwellings come into view. Some makeshift houses seem more durable than others, constructed from planks of wood and cardboard, while many are only composed of ropes and tarpaulin. Although most of the civilians have retreated into their homes, barefooted children still mingle beneath low roofs made from tin sheets and plastics. Kurapika fears they will not hold should it rain.

Kuroro eventually stops at an open landscape, far from the homes of Meteor City’s inhabitants. Finally, because Kurapika didn’t exactly want to ambush him in public. Amidst the smoke and ascended dust, where something used to stand, only rubble and broken glass remain. The aftermath of destruction is thick in the air.

Kurapika presses his back against a slab of rock, not daring to make a sound. When the dust begins to clear, he can make out a massive figure approaching Kuroro and Kortopi. The sudden flood of aura melts away the scraps of the building at their feet, vaporizing them into nothing but air. Kurapika’s breath seizes in his throat.

Silva Zoldyck emerges from the dust, holding a young woman by her long, black hair—but she isn’t struggling, isn’t even moving. Only her white dress billows with the breeze.

If Kuroro could grow even paler, he does. Kortopi hides behind his leg, trembling and grasping onto him without any intention of letting go.

“You’ve kept me waiting, Spider.” Silva drops the woman, and her body strikes the ground with the sound of a crumpled doll being discarded like garbage. Her hair spills over in a pool of black, soaked with fresh blood. “Where’s the rest of your subordinates?”

Kuroro sets his jaw, not breaking eye contact with his unwanted visitor. “Go, Kortopi.”

Kortopi’s head snaps up, looking at him with wide, fearful eyes. He shakes his head, grabbing onto Kuroro’s clothes again.

“Did you not hear me?” Kuroro’s tone is harsher now. “ _Go_.”

Kurapika knows faintly of their past together, of how Kuroro managed to hold his own in a fight against the Zoldycks twice, though he doesn’t know who hired Silva. This is unfortunate timing on his part, because all he wants is his Hunter license back, not to get involved in a fight between these two.

Silva approaches with thunderous steps, and the smell of something burning is their only warning. Electricity crackles in his hands, spinning into an orb of vibrant purple light, and he hurls it towards their direction with terrifying strength.

Kurapika doesn’t even have time to see the result, because Kuroro grabs Kortopi by his shirt and throws him across the landscape—back in Kurapika’s direction. As Kortopi’s body skids through the ground, landing at his feet, Kurapika doesn’t even think, just picks him up and _runs_. He makes a sound of surprise, but Kurapika doesn’t have the time to explain yet. Earth shatters, rocks flatten, and when Kurapika looks back, his heart racing like never before, Kuroro’s figure has disappeared with the dust.

The surge of dust sears at Kurapika’s skin as he runs, stings at his eyes, but he refuses to stop. The static is so close, so strong that it crackles through his hair. He’s tucked Kortopi underneath his arm as if he’s carrying a package, though he’s far too light for a child. “Don’t say a word, kid.” Kortopi doesn’t struggle in his grasp, only looks at him with profound confusion. “I’m getting you out of here.”

“But Kuroro! What about Kuroro—”

“Kuroro’s strong,” Kurapika says without hesitation. It’s not something he’s ever admitted before, despite the times Kuroro called Kurapika’s own abilities _fascinating_ and his strength _compelling_. Behind them, there’s the sound of impact and a hundred birds escaping from the battlefield. “He’s stronger than you think. He’s not going to die so easily.”

“How do you know—”

“Focus.” Kurapika grits his teeth. “I don’t think you can fight, but I can. You’re only a liability here. You don’t want to be a liability to Kuroro, right?”

“Then go help him!” A sharp tug on the sleeve of his jacket, and Kurapika looks down. Faint tracks of tears stain Kortopi’s face. “Please.”

Something hot sparks at his chest, but Kurapika chooses not to answer. He doesn’t stop looking forward, continues moving through the haze of smoke and dust. A deafening blast distinguishes itself from the others, so powerful that the ground shudders beneath them—and there's another and another and another—and the series of explosions only gain momentum from that point on.

It’s only when the heat in the air fades and the smoke is a distance away, that he sets Kortopi down on the ground. They’re close to the district where they came from, and Kurapika finally lets out a quiet breath of relief. They take cover beneath a canopy in front of an abandoned shop front, and it’s enough shelter for now. His head is spinning, his legs are trembling, though he can’t tell if it’s from adrenaline or from the fact he decided to rescue a Spider.

To what extent should Kurapika get involved, if any at all? The outcome of this fight has already been decided—a standstill where both end up surviving the encounter. Perhaps he didn’t need to do anything at all, but he’s seen too many deaths already, too much blood spilled, and letting a child bear witness to that isn’t something that sits well with him.

As Kortopi looks up at him, tears slide down his cheeks. He cries quietly, with only the softest of sniffles. “Who was that?”

Kurapika can’t think of a roundabout explanation. “That man wants Kuroro and his friends dead. You saw what happened to that woman.”

A Spider that he’s never met before. But he doesn’t dwell on the thought, because she’s dead.

“But why?”

“Because someone hired him to do so.” Kurapika thinks of the first time he saw Silva during Yorknew, as a fellow assassin rather than Killua’s father, and how he did things the way he liked, despite expectations of the mafioso. “He’s doing his job.”

Kortopi contemplates this in silence, looking at the dust on his shoes. Kurapika has never particularly enjoyed being around children, although that thought might have changed during the time he spent with Prince Woble. He wonders how she is doing now, if she managed to safely return home with Queen Oito.

A moment passes between them, before Kortopi’s expression shifts to something more hesitant. “How do you know Kuroro? You don’t—want him dead too, do you?”

“I’ve only heard of him,” Kurapika decides to say, closing his eyes for a brief moment. There was a time when he wished Kuroro dead with all his being, but that time is not now. “I just want my Hunter license back, that’s all. I’m not going to murder him over it.”

Kortopi wipes away his tears with the sleeve of his tunic. “I don’t want Kuroro to get hurt. If you’re a Hunter, then you must be strong too.” He reaches out to tug at Kurapika’s pants, pleading him. “I think he needs help.”

Kurapika lets out a resigned sigh. He doesn’t exactly have a plan beyond not getting interfering with Kuroro’s fight against Silva. “I’ll go take a look. Stay here, and don’t move.”

When Kortopi finally lets go of him, he drags himself back to where he last saw Kuroro. Despite the reverberation in the distance, something like a detonation, the street children have yet to take shelter. They look on with curiosity in their eyes, towards the grey, rainless sky. He hopes that Kortopi will heed his instructions and avoid getting into trouble with the other children. He would rather not return to find him getting beaten again.

As Kurapika gets closer, dust sweeps across the landscape, and he has to cover his face with his suit jacket as he forges onward. The last thing he wants is for Silva to mistake him for Kuroro’s acquaintance—or even worse, a Spider.

When the dust clears, the landscape has been violently warped, consisting of nothing but deep craters steaming with smoke and ridged footprints trailing away from the area. The air is still with Silva Zoldyck nowhere in sight.

Amidst the rubble, Kuroro lies a few feet away from him. His clothes are scorched, left as tattered pieces on his frame, and the blood on his torso conjures an echo of the last time Kurapika saw him on the Black Whale. Kurapika goes to him, lowering himself to his knees by his side.

Kuroro’s gaze sharpens, striving through the haze of pain to focus on Kurapika’s face. “It’s you.” It takes effort for him to speak, though he sounds perplexed, as if he believes that he’s seeing things. “I thought I told you to go home.”

Kurapika suppresses the urge to scoff. “You have something of mine, and I’m not leaving without it.” He turns his head, taking in their surroundings. “Where is he?”

“Escaped,” Kuroro says after a moment. He heaves himself upright, flinching at the discomfort, but Kurapika splays a hand across his chest to support him. Kurapika doesn’t know why he does so, but Kuroro feels _alive_ , and the touch feels capable of burning Kurapika’s hand. He leans back against the rubble in a sitting position. “Kortopi? The child who was with me?”

“He’s safe.”

“Good,” Kuroro murmurs, although there’s nothing good about the pain in his inflection. His voice trembles as he speaks. “I'm glad.”

A soft, breathless sound is the last thing Kurapika hears before Kuroro suddenly falls forward onto his shoulder, instead of a slab of dusty stone. When he breathes, the sordid scent of blood and ash fills his nose. It makes him go very still, because all he can remember is—

Kuroro resting limply against his shoulder, so close to the crook of his neck, bloodied and broken. Kuroro murmuring his last words against the bare skin of his neck, his breath still warm. Kuroro closing his eyes, ensuring that Kurapika would not be alone during his last moments.

Kurapika shouldn’t have such poignant memories about his former enemy, but he does. They were never companions. They were the last survivors of their families. They didn’t choose each other.

But the Kuroro he knows is dead.

A breath to steady himself, and Kurapika turns his attention back to the person in front of him. Though the wounds that Silva afflicted upon this Kuroro seem severe, the future has already dictated that he will survive this ordeal. How, Kurapika doesn’t know.

Kuroro has already fallen from consciousness, only a light weight on his shoulder now. It’s jarring to think that he will be the one to destroy the world that Kurapika cherished so much, when he looks so vulnerable here. His hair, shorter than what Kurapika remembers, is a dark veil over his sepulchral face. His lashes are still very long, brushing against his cheeks. Kurapika can’t fathom a time when Kuroro was truly innocent.

The reality that he's with Kuroro makes him think of the possibilities. If he's truly ten years in the past, no matter how unfathomable it seems, then—there’s the potential for a future where his family will still live on, where he will not have to be the last relic of a forgotten past.

But he isn’t the kind of person to change the world. His heart isn’t as big as Gon’s and his hands can’t save countless lives like Leorio’s. Yet, he's all that the world has right now. He’s already been a boy, a murderer, a savior. Who must he be? What must he be to change things?

Kurapika doesn't know, but it’s best to destroy an infection before it spreads. He could easily end Kuroro’s life now, when he’s so defenseless by his side, and eliminate the rest of the Spiders for good measure. His chains are a well-remembered weight on his hand and he could certainly do it, end everything before it even begins. A future where the Spiders would stand no longer makes his heart feel so _light_ , but—

Kurapika doesn’t need any more blood on his hands. Eradicating the Spiders doesn’t mean that his clan won’t be susceptible to the attention of others as well. Doesn’t mean that another threat won’t rise in its wake.

At his side, Kuroro’s chest rises and falls shallowly. His wounds demand attention from him. He has to make his choice now.

Kurapika knows what will happen, and he’s _prepared_. All he has to do is prevent the worse from happening. It’s a new purpose for him, and he’ll make sure that he accomplishes it while he's alive, no matter what it takes.

So he gently lays Kuroro back against the rubble, keeping him upright. His hands shake when he reaches for Kuroro’s shirt, peeling whatever’s left of it from his wounds. It’s entirely possible that Kuroro’s ribs were broken and punctured his lungs, and Kurapika can probably heal to that extent.

But he’s not willing to use his Eyes for this. Not after how he exhausted his life in exchange for greater power.

Though, it’s still comforting to have his Nen. His cross-linked chain is suspended over Kuroro’s skin, glowing a gentle green, and he uses his own aura to accelerate the healing of damaged skin and muscle and bone. It won’t be perfect, but it will be enough for Kuroro’s body to heal naturally thereafter.

If Kurapika was the person he was two years ago, he would never let Kuroro live, but this time, he needs Kuroro alive if he wants the answers he seeks. When the wounds have sealed, Kurapika gathers Kuroro’s arm over his shoulder and lifts him. Although Kuroro isn’t much taller than he is, he is a much greater weight.

This means having to dragging Kuroro back to Kortopi on his own strength. It takes twice the amount of time than it usually would, when Kuroro keeps on sliding from his shoulder and he has to avoid hitting Kuroro’s body on the edges of buildings. The odd looks he gets from children seem to be directed towards him rather than Kuroro. Relief eventually comes when he finds Kortopi waiting for them at the same place.

Kortopi rushes over to them, his features fraught with concern. “What happened?"

“He’s fine.” Kurapika’s seen too much for one day. His legs are aching and he’s ready to drop Kuroro on the ground any moment now. “Where does he live?”

Kurapika silently prays that the building that Silva decimated wasn't Kuroro's home. Thankfully, Kortopi announces, “This way!”

His apartment isn’t very far, but Kurapika’s legs protest when he has to climb a flight of stairs. Kortopi helps him unlock the door with a spare key. The space is rather sparse, but much cleaner than expected, and Kurapika breathes a sigh of relief when it isn’t cluttered with dust and filth. He releases Kuroro onto the bed, letting him fall none too gently, and finds himself envious of Kuroro for having a bed to sleep on.

Light streams weakly from the windows, passing over Kuroro’s face and reminding Kurapika of how young he really is. His dark lashes flutter in slumber and the areas around his eyes are free of fatigue. The sight makes him contemplate _why_ and _how_  Kuroro became the person he did, though he'll most likely never know.

Kurapika sits on the edge of the bed and carefully removes the rest of the blood-soaked shirt from Kuroro’s body, discarding it on the floor. His torso is exposed now, scarred lightly from his unfinished healing efforts, and there’s the etch of a black tattoo on his arm. Kurapika averts his gaze before his eyes can shift to scarlet.

His Hunter license should be in Kuroro’s pants somewhere then, or perhaps his shoes. He wills himself not to feel uncomfortable when he leans over to search Kuroro, digging his hands into his pockets for that familiar card, and then—

The doorknob turns, the floorboard creaks. Kurapika looks up, startled and very guilty of laying his hands on a half-dressed and unconscious Kuroro.

That aquiline profile is undeniable, because Pakunoda stands there at the entrance, her hands covering Kortopi’s eyes. Her dress is modest and her face is clean of makeup. Her lips part slightly, as if she's too surprised to say anything. Kurapika can feel his face heating up, having possessed the most _impeccable_ timing in all situations today, and the flush on his cheeks doesn't make things any better.

But behind her is another presence all too familiar. Nobunaga steps closer, tightening his grip around the hilt of his blade, though he doesn’t unsheathe it just yet.

“Who are you?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a new record. I updated this fic three times in one week, consecutively. T_T 
> 
> I always lose motivation with longer fics, since I just want to upload the more explicit chapters already. +;) But alas, we are not there yet.
> 
> Please leave a comment—I would love to know what you think. You can also reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

 

“I wasn't aware that _Danchou_ had a lover.”

The remark comes from Phinks first, and it couldn't have been farther from the truth. Kurapika wonders if it's possible to choke on air, because he can't get a sound out from his throat. He stands at the bedside, facing four members of the Phantom Troupe—if he can even consider Kortopi to be part of them. Even during the early days of the Phantom Troupe, he wouldn't put it past Kuroro to have a child as a member of his group.

Pakunoda is alive. Nobunaga is alive. Phinks is alive. Kortopi is alive. They are all supposed to be dead, and yet they are not. But Kurapika is the one who doesn't belong here. He has to remember that.

Pakunoda scrutinizes him as if he's some sort of deviant, and he can't help but feel offended at the very thought. She continues protecting the purity of Kortopi's eyesight, her hands over his face. “I wouldn't think that he would consent to being touched when he's unconscious. Unless his lover is _that_ repressed.”

“I'm not,” Kurapika manages to say, and it comes out much rougher than he intends. He clears his throat. “I'm not his lover.” Despite the absurdity of their claims, he can't come up with an explanation that could be less farfetched.

Nobunaga rubs his cleanly shaven face in thought. "Then what’s someone like you doing here?" He takes one step forward, and the sound of a blade being exposed from its sheath cuts through the stillness of the air. “I'll give you one try to answer.”

“Wait—” Kortopi pulls Pakunoda's hands away from his face. He stumbles in between them and Kurapika, spreading his arms out. “He's a good person!”

That draws skeptical glances from all of them. If Phinks had eyebrows, he would raise them.

Kortopi goes to Kurapika’s side, holding onto the hem of his jacket at first. But then his small hand closes around Kurapika’s fingers, and he looks up at Kurapika, determined. “This person saved me and brought Kuroro back here.”

Nobunaga seems unconvinced. “The timing’s too convenient, especially when we just lost number eight. If only we were there—”

“But _he_ was.” There’s a tremor in Kortopi’s voice, as if this is the first time he's raised his voice, the first time he’s fought for something in his life. His grasp tightens around Kurapika’s hand. “I don’t know what would have happened if he wasn’t. He healed Kuroro too.”

“A good samaritan?” Phinks looks straight at Kurapika, growing impatient with his silence. “Nobody does anything without expecting something in return. I want to know what happened back there too.”

“Silva Zoldyck came.”   

Kurapika turns to the bed in faint surprise, where Kuroro is staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't know how long Kuroro's been awake, but if only he had woken up before Kurapika had to drag his body all the way back here.

“I’d like to speak with our guest, so if you all could leave for a while.” It’s not a request, as Kuroro’s words are definitive. With pronounced effort, he pushes himself up on his elbows, despite that the movement makes him grow paler. “I’ll provide all of the necessary details after.”

Nobunaga looks intently at the both of them, before sliding his blade back where it belongs. Even Kortopi gives him one last glance before letting go of his hand.

Kurapika isn’t certain if they all live in this building, but this space definitely belongs only to Kuroro. When only the two of them remain, Kurapika gets straight to the point.

"Where is my Hunter license?” Folding his arms, he stares flatly at Kuroro. “I have methods of knowing if you aren’t telling the truth, so I would advise you not to do so.”

Kuroro blinks, but slowly moves to sit up and lean against the wall. A weighted silence sits in the air between them.

“You shouldn’t get caught if you steal from someone,” Kurapika echoes. He’s not sure if someone like Kuroro has the capacity to feel guilt, but he has no intention of being sympathetic here. “Isn’t that what you told Kortopi?”

“I apologize.” Kuroro’s tone is impeccably polite, but his expression is as unreadable as ever. Even with all of his pockets turned inside-out, there’s nothing to be found. “But it isn’t with me.”

Kurapika’s lips tighten into a thin line. “That isn’t possible.”

“What I mean is,” Kuroro explains carefully, “if it was lost in the fight, then there is no way of retrieving it. It’s most likely dust and ash at this point.”

Without another thought, Kurapika slams his hand against the wall, right beside Kuroro’s head. Kuroro doesn’t so as much flinch, only continues staring into Kurapika’s eyes as he leans over him. Something _burns_ inside him, but he doesn’t know if he’s angry out of principle—because Kuroro’s taken so much from him already—or angry because the Hunter license meant something to him.

“You have to be kidding me,” Kurapika says, lacking inflection. His blond hair falls into his face as he looks down at Kuroro. He can’t remember the last time he cut it.

“If it matters to you,” Kuroro starts to say, somewhat awkward, “I can attempt to replace it.” What he really means is that he’ll try to steal another or purchase it off the black market. Kuroro doesn’t seem like the kind of person to owe debts.

There isn’t any use getting frustrated. His anger slides into disappointment, because despite that he only became a Hunter in order to pursue the Spiders, he worked to earn that license. It was then that he met his companions for the first time, that he finally felt as if he was making progress towards his goals.

Kurapika doesn’t even know if he would retain the benefits of having a license in this life, but that’s not the point here. It feels like he’s losing a connection to his past. He takes a deep breath, because if he doesn't calm himself, he'll throttle Kuroro before he knows it. He turns away to face the adjacent wall instead.

He can feel Kuroro’s gaze on his back, assessing his reaction. After several moments of silence, an unexpected offer comes. “Do you have a place to stay? You’re welcome to stay here tonight.”

“That's very considerate of you,” Kurapika says dryly, as if that would rectify things between them. It’s been years since he last had a home to return to. Since then, he’s managed well enough to find places to sleep. “Do you always take in strangers like this?”

“I appreciate the fact that you assisted Kortopi as well as myself,” Kuroro says quietly, “and I believe I should reciprocate in turn. While I am interested in knowing what a Hunter is doing in a place like this, I won’t ask if you’re not willing to tell me now.”

Kurapika isn’t particularly inclined to trust Kuroro, but he has nothing else to lose. He’s exhausted, on the verge of passing out, but he’s more than capable should anything else happen to him in the midst of the night. Being one bodyguard out of Queen Oito’s remaining two meant forgoing sleep for many nights and covering the responsibilities that should have been distributed among many more. “Fine.”

“Can I have your name?”

Kurapika hesitates for a moment, wonders if he should divulge his name freely, but he’s never used a name he hasn't been given. He’s always worn his name with pride, the last trace of his dying language.

“It’s rude to ask when you haven’t introduced yourself.” Kurapika looks over his shoulder, meeting Kuroro’s curious gaze evenly. “While Kortopi called you Kuroro, the others called you _Danchou_.”

“You can just call me Kuroro. Kuroro Lucifer,” he offers with a small smile. In a place like Meteor City where so many individuals lack identities, names hold power and meaning. “Kortopi isn’t old enough to call me that yet.”

“Kurapika,” is all he says, although Kuroro seems to be waiting for the rest of his name. He doesn’t have a last name.

“Kurapika,” Kuroro repeats softly, slowly. “That’s a nice name.”

Kurapika doesn’t deign to answer, only huffs in disbelief, because accepting compliments from Kuroro isn’t something that he ever plans on doing. Slowly, Kuroro rises to his feet and keeps his steps steady when he goes to open the small closet in the corner of the room.

“You can take the bed, and I’ll sleep on the floor.” Kuroro has yet to fully recover, but it isn’t Kurapika’s problem if Kuroro sleeps on the floor since he’s the one offering. He folds a set of spare clothes and a towel, presenting them to Kurapika. “You can also use the shower. The water is clean, if you’re concerned about that.”

Kurapika nods, accepting the neatly folded pile. “I’ll do that then.”

He retreats to Kuroro’s bathroom, quietly closing and locking the door behind him. It’s easy to discern that the rest of Kuroro’s place is as clean as the bedroom, albeit small, though he must be more privileged than most of Meteor City’s inhabitants to live like this. After hanging Kuroro’s clothing and towel on the hooks on the wall, he loosens his black tie and starts to divest himself of the rest of his suit.

Turning on the water, he steps into the shower. The temperature of the water is a welcome warmth on his skin, easing the tension deep in his bones. He makes use of the bottles of shampoo and soap on the racks, taking his time to wash his hair and body, grateful to have time to himself. All of the dirt and dust from his skin washes away with ease. The clean, earthy scent of sage fills the bathroom, and while it's nice to escape the foul odor of the outside, it’s a strange sensation to share the same scent as Kuroro.

Kurapika eventually leaves the shower, feeling refreshed yet still very tired, and gingerly dries his hair with the towel. He can’t make sense of why he’s here, in Meteor City and Kuroro’s company, out of all the places he could possibly be. But he’s alive and everyone he knows is alive—just not in the way he remembers them. The mirror over the sink is fogged with steam, and he sweeps his hand across the surface, considering his reflection.

Taupe eyes that sometimes shift to scarlet. Shadows beneath his eyes, from too many nights sacrificed to his duties. A small nose, sharp jaw, and cheekbones that make him see his mother in his reflection.

It won’t be long until he’ll reach the ages his parents were when they died, for he’ll have outlived them for many years now. The thought leaves his heart aching, but perhaps, he’ll have the opportunity to find their younger selves in this life, even if they won’t ever know who Kurapika is.

That makes him feel better, feel worse, he doesn’t know. He continues dragging the towel over his damp hair. His bangs continue falling over his eyes, reminding him that he should cut it soon or resort to tying his hair back. Too many times had Prince Woble pulled on his hair when he looked over her, cradled her in his arms, and the memory makes him smile to himself. When he feels dry enough, he leaves the towel on the hook and gets dressed with the clothes that Kuroro lent him.

The white tee shirt falls over Kurapika's hips, too large for his frame. It’s loose over his shoulders, exposing his collarbone more than he would like. The sweatpants are shapeless as well, long enough that he has to roll them up over his ankles. He doesn't really mind. More than anything, he’s just surprised that Kuroro owns something that isn’t black in color.

Kurapika returns to the bedroom, where the light is still on. At the foot of the bed, Kuroro is sitting on a blanket on the floor, having changed into clean clothing himself. He looks at Kurapika for a moment too long, before turning back to the book in his hands. He’s been acting awfully calm for someone who just lost one of his Spiders, because Kurapika clearly remembers what he did the last time that happened.

Kuroro closes the book before placing it on the desk. He stands up and approaches Kurapika, taking his old clothes from him. “I’ll make sure your suit gets cleaned.”

“Thank you,” Kurapika answers, to which Kuroro smiles. The politeness is beginning to unnerve him, but he supposes that Kuroro must have always been like that.

“I’ll go ahead and shower then,” Kuroro says. “You can sleep first.”

When he closes the door to the bathroom, Kurapika takes a quick glance at the rest of his bedroom. The last time he can recall sharing a room with another person was during the Hunter Exam, and he doesn't know how he feels about spending the night here. He peers beneath the bed, finding only stacks of books instead of anything else someone would expect from a teenage boy. He shouldn't have expected differently from Kuroro.

Once he hears the water running, he lies down on the bed, staring at the blank walls. His wallet is hidden beneath the pillow, right where he can rest assured that it's still in his possession. Despite the softness of the sheets and blankets, he’s not certain if he could ever be comfortable on Kuroro’s bed, let alone sleep tonight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another quick chapter.
> 
> It took me two years to get in a scene where Kurapika wears Kuroro's clothes.. It was the first thing I ever wrote for kurokura in 2016, but it never made it into any of my fics. :') 
> 
> Thank you for reading so far! Please leave a comment, as I would love to know what you think. 
> 
> You can also reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).


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